


we will never be satisfied

by HelgaHufflepunk



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: F/M, Fluff, OKAY so basically this is just, RIP me, Unplanned, and susan was the butterfly holder and was supposed to stop him and stuff, angst in later chapters, idk where tf this is going tbfh, let's hope 4 the best lmao, me doing a prev!gen au type thing, unbetaed, we are OUTMANNED, where gabe was a supervillain/the peacock holder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 16:50:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6762202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelgaHufflepunk/pseuds/HelgaHufflepunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He first meets her when she’s fifteen years old.</p>
<p>(It’s more than twenty years later that he meets her son for the first time, and her green eyes smile back at him, and something inside of him breaks and heals all at once.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	we will never be satisfied

**Author's Note:**

> HEy so this prologue is complete bullshit, i just felt like i had to open it a little, so p l ease know that the rest of the fic is actually going to be semi-good. like. h on estly. you can just ignore this if you want.

Her name was Susan, and she was beautiful, and Nooroo loved her with his entire heart.

Her name was Susan, and she existed - she lived and she loved and she laughed and she saved the world, and she was more than just her husband’s name. She was more than just a painting on a wall or a picture on a phone, and that is how Nooroo will remember her, forever - as who she was.

Her name was Susan.

This is, in the end, the most important thing for you to know.

* * *

Rain patters against the window, the clatter more relaxing than frightening as Susan stretches out on her stomach across the length of her bed, ponytail swishing against her neck gently as she does so, the cold daylight pouring over her from the stormy world outside coloring her in shades of grey.

“‘In vain have I struggled,’” she reads under her breath, her voice lowering in pitch to match the gravelly, solemn tones the words whisper through her mind. “‘It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.’” She snorts, taking an undignified bite of the apple in her free hand. “She  _ must,  _ huh? What a load of  _ bull _ shit.”

She flops onto her back, dropping the book onto the bed next to her, splayed open to the page she’s on, staring up at the ceiling, sighing softly, her chest sinking with the familiar feeling of being lost out at sea.

* * *

 

 

Our story starts on a rainy day with a boy named Gabriel Agreste.

At age fifteen, Gabriel was not much like the man you might know - he was tall and gangly, too thin for his limbs, his blonde hair combed back with less expertise than perfectionism, his hands constantly fidgeting, as if begging for a pencil to be pressed into his palm, desperate for the images in his head to appear on paper, to let it all out. He did not stand to his full height, not then - he was constantly and consistently hunched, his grey eyes hidden behind wire frames, so pale he was almost sickly looking - all in all, he was not the type of boy you really noticed.

In fact, the only notable thing about him was his clothes - all business casual, sleek and sensible and never lacking in color, but never exploding in it, either; Gabriel Agreste was pale and golden-haired and reserved, but his clothes were never anything less than beautiful.

But this is not, I’m sorry to say, about young Gabriel’s fashion sense.

It is, rather, about one particular accessory of his - a brooch, subtly pinned to the breast of his vests, blue and green and  _ utterly  _ miraculous.

* * *

“Gabriel,” Master Fu greets, smiling, as the boy steps through the door, shutting his umbrella grumpily and stomping his feet on the mat. “You’re early.”

The boy barely looks up, even as a small blue creature explodes from his messenger bag, flying, fast, at the similar green being hovering behind Fu. He shakes out his umbrella, angrily, once. Twice. Takes off his glasses and dries them off on the bottom of his rain-splattered dress shirt. Puts them back on. Turns his cold, grey eyes on his mentor and takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“When were you going to tell me?” he asks after a long moment, and Fu withdraws at the holder’s tone, his smile falling into a more neutral expression.

“You weren’t ready,” Fu replies, simply, steadily, turning away and toddling over to his bookshelf, for no apparent reason other than to avoid eye contact with the teenager.

“Bullshit,” Gabriel snaps, eyes flashing, and the old man’s shoulders tense under the venom behind the word. “You didn’t tell me because you were  _ scared.  _ Of what  _ I  _ might do.”

There’s a long silence, and the two kwamis hovering in the air between the men blink at each other with worry, still holding onto each other tightly. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” Fu says, at last, and the blond laughs, the sound short and sharp and grating as he picks up his messenger bag, the movement just as vicious as his voice.

“I think that says everything I need to know,” he snaps, and with that, he storms out again, umbrella left, waiting, by the door, his kwami speeding after him, glancing worriedly over her shoulder one last time before she, too, disappears into the grey streets of Paris.

* * *

Something you must understand, going into this, is that Gabriel didn’t  _ mean  _ to become a supervillain. Not necessarily. I mean - people rarely do, but I still think that’s an important thing for you to know.

Gabriel Agreste never meant to become a villain.

Things just sort of...turned out that way.

* * *

“I’m done reading translated books,” Susan announces, stomping in a puddle, Tom stumbling after her to keep her under the safety of their shared umbrella as she squints up at him. “English writers are bullshit.”

Tom sighs, rolling his eyes. “You think everything is bullshit,” he points out, and her gaze narrows indignantly.

“Because it  _ is, _ ” she argues, waving a hand about in irritation. “The entire world, other than, like. You. And music. And sweets.”

“Okay,” her friend snorts, “ _ that  _ is bullshit. The world is perfectly fine. It’s not that tree’s fault you’re in a perpetual bad mood.”

Susan gasps overdramatically, kicking water at him, her nose scrunched in irritation. “I am  _ not, _ ” she objects. “Just because I-”

A car flies past them, front over back, and the two teenagers freeze, turning to watch it skid down the road, towards an approaching car.

* * *

Her name was Susan, and this is her story.

**Author's Note:**

> oka y so that happened


End file.
